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The phone rang a little before nine PM, while he was in the middle of some grim accounting concerning his electricity bill, his water bill, and the price of dog food. It had been a long day and he had a headache forming between his temples. He couldn’t really be blamed, in the circumstances, for answering with a brusque, “Yes? What’d you want?”
The line hummed. “Uh,” said a voice. “Is this Doctor E. Brown?”
It was a child’s voice and he thought aha – prank call. “That depends who’s asking,” he said shortly.
“Listen – I’m real sorry to bother you so late,” said the kid. “But I saw your van around town the other day and it said twenty-four hours, and it’s urgent. Is that Doctor Brown?”
Emmett rubbed an aching temple. He thought the kid sounded earnest, but he couldn’t rule out the possibility that this was a prank. It wouldn’t be the first time. But still – he didn’t feel comfortable hanging up. “Yes,” he sighed. “This is Doctor Brown. What can I do for you?”
“Okay, great.” The kid brightened up; then he said in a rush, “I have a big problem cause I got a test tomorrow and I’ve been trying to study and I don’t get it so I asked my mom and she said to go ask my dad, so I asked my dad and he said he doesn’t know anything about science, so I asked my brother and he told me to buzz off, so then I looked in the phone book and –”
“Kid – kid,” said Emmett. “Slow down.” He paused, trying to process that break-neck sentence. “Did you call me up to ask for help with your science homework?”
The line was quiet for a moment. Then, plaintive, the voice came again. “Is that okay?”
Doctor E. Brown Enterprises didn’t get a lot of phone calls. In truth, he’d registered the business less out of a desire to offer out his services and more out of a need for a – platform, for some of his financial activities.
He looked at the bills strewn across his desk – the red and black ink – his tallied up columns of figures. Then he pushed his chair away and adjusting his grip on the phone said, “Okay. What kind of science are we talking here?”
“Uh – atoms and stuff,” said the kid.
“Oh, perfect!” said Emmett. “That’s exactly my area.” His mind caught up with itself. “What grade are you in?”
“Seventh,” the kid said, adding helpfully, “I’m twelve.”
“Good to know.” Emmett turned slightly in his chair. “What’s the test gonna cover? Do you know?”
“Uhh.” He made out the sound of a textbook being leafed through. “We have to know what all the bits inside are called? And stuff about the periodic table. Can you help? My mom says if I get another F this semester I’m grounded.”
“And she won’t even help you with your homework?” said Emmett. “That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Hey, that’s what I said!” said the kid. “She told me to go to my room.” Emmett chuckled. “It wasn’t funny.”
“I’m sorry – sorry,” he said. “Alright, kid – I’m sorry, what’s your name?”
“Marty,” said the kid. “Marty McFly.”
“Marty,” Emmett echoed. “What exactly is it that you don’t understand?”
There was another rustle of papers. “All of it,” said Marty glumly. “I’m no good at this stuff. I’m not very smart, I guess.”
“What?” Emmett sat up straighter, filled with a sudden irrational wave of defensiveness on behalf of a kid he’d been talking to for all of two minutes. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
Marty made an uncertain noise down the phone.
“Really, now,” said Emmett. “You called me, didn’t you? Asking for help when you need it is usually the smart thing to do.”
“I guess.” Marty sighed. “I just don’t like science and stuff – no offense.”
“None taken.” Emmett settled back in his chair and reached for his mostly-cold mug of cocoa. “What do you like?”
“I don’t know,” said Marty. “Music, I guess.”
“There you go,” said Emmett as if that proved his point. “Alright. Let’s talk about atoms. Where are you lost?”
“I just can’t keep all the different names straight in my head,” Marty admitted.
“Well,” Emmett said. “Let’s see. An atom has a nucleus, which is made up of protons and neutrons. Protons have a positive charge – pro for proton, because when you’re pro-something that means your positive about it – and neutrons are neutral.”
“Ohh,” said Marty. “Okay.”
“And then around the nucleus you have a cloud of electrons – they have a negative charge –”
“But why are they called electrons?” Marty interrupted.
“Because they’re where electricity comes from,” said Emmett.
“For real?” said Marty. “Oh. Wow. Okay. Oh, that makes so much more sense than the way my science teacher explained it.”
“Teachers for you,” said Emmett, which got him a laugh.
“Thank you,” said Marty. “That helps a lot.”
“Any time,” Emmett told him, very seriously. “I’m here twenty-four hours. Anything else I can help you with?”
“Uh.” There was a more protracted rustling of homework. “Is algebra a kind of science?”
“Absolutely,” said Emmett, adjusting his grip on the phone. “What can I do for you?”
His various clocks ticked away on the wall, as he sipped his fresh mug of cocoa.
“And after that it’s Comfortably Numb,” said Marty. “It’s –”
“Ah, yes,” Emmett said gravely. “I’ve heard that one on the radio.”
“Oh, great!” There was a distinct crunching noise. “You know it. Well, anyway, that’s the end of the third side.” Another crunching.
Emmett took a bite of his own snack. “What’re you eating?”
“Chex Mix,” said Marty. “You?”
“Fig Newtons.” Marty made a disgusted noise, and he laughed. “Not a fan, eh?”
They’d been taking around the subject of Marty’s algebra homework for the best part of forty-five minutes. He wasn’t entirely convinced he was actually improving the kid’s understanding of the subject – and he suspected forty-five minutes might be an inappropriately long time to talk to a strange child over the phone. But then, Marty had called him, he reasoned. What was he supposed to do, hang up on the poor boy?
“Where were we up to with your homework?” he said. “Shall we –” There was a very familiar scuffling from across the garage and turning away from the phone he called out, “Einie! No! No!” He waited till he heard canine footsteps retreating. “Sorry about that,” he said into the receiver. “My dog was trying to get into the trash can again.”
“You have a dog?” said Marty, delighted. “What kind of dog? What’s he called?”
“His name’s Einstein,” said Emmett. “He –”
“Like the scientist? That’s cool.” There was another crunch of Chex Mix. “Mom says we can’t get a dog, uh, because it’ll shed all over the carpet. We have a bird.”
“Ohh,” said Emmett. “Intriguing. Can it talk?”
“No – it’s not very smart,” Marty said. “It –” There was a muffled voice in the background. “Just a sec.”
He heard the rattling of the receiver being moved around and then, muddily, Marty saying, “What?”
The other voice answered.
“Nobody,” Marty said. “I’m not – look, five more minutes, okay?” The other voice spoke at length. “Hey, I – I’m doing it right now –”
His voice grew still more muffled, as if he’d pressed the receiver into a pillow something, and Emmett could no longer make out the words. But he could make out the tone of the conversation, as it continued back and forth for an uncomfortably long time. He sat there, loosely clutching his own phone, feeling rather like he’d walked in on a family argument.
At length, Marty’s voice came back on the line. “Uh,” he said. “My mom says I have to go now.”
“I figured,” said Emmett. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah – yeah, everything’s fine,” said Marty. “Listen, how much do I owe you?”
Emmett blinked. “Owe me?”
“For helping me out,” Marty clarified. “It’s your job, right? I forgot to ask how much you charge.”
He rubbed his forehead and considered how best to answer. “Ah.”
“I got, uh.” There was a rustling. “Seven dollars and fifty-eight – fifty-nine cents. Is that enough?”
“Kid, I, uh,” said Emmett. “You don’t have to pay me – it’s okay.”
“No, I can pay you,” Marty insisted. “I don’t get my allowance for a couple of weeks but –”
“Marty, honestly,” Emmett interrupted. “I don’t want your money, okay? You – you keep your seven dollars and fifty-nine cents. Go get yourself something nice.”
“But I want to –”
“Marty,” he said firmly. “I’m not taking your money. Good luck on your science test.”
“Aww.” Marty sounded honestly dejected about it and all of a sudden he felt paradoxically guilty for refusing. “Sorry for taking up so much of your time.”
“It’s really no trouble –”
“You’re sure I can’t do something for you?” Marty spoke over him. “I could walk your dog or something.”
“You don’t need to –” He breathed out, and gave in. What harm could it do, really, to humour the kid? There was no harm in it. “Alright – I guess you can walk my dog some time.”
“Okay!” said Mary. “Cool! I’m free tomorrow after school. Where do you live?”
*
As he fussed over the state of the lab, Emmett wondered – not for the first time that day – why he was going out of his way to impress a twelve-year-old.
It was a lost cause, anyway. The lab had been a disaster area for years. The most he could do was make sure the couch was free of clutter and the floor relatively free of tripping hazards.
He cast an eye over his lacklustre handiwork and with a sigh went back over to the kitchenette and opened the cabinet. Squinting at the snacks inside, he tried to untidy them a little, to make it look less like he’d gone shopping specially.
He’d had to go shopping specially, he told himself. He hadn’t had any food suitable for offering to a twelve-year-old houseguest. He’d checked.
A knock on the door, followed closely by Einstein’s steady bark, jolted him out of his thoughts. “Coming!” he called out, hauling Einstein back by his collar before he got too excited. “I’m coming –”
He opened the door – and looked down, startled. “Oh.”
“Uh. Doctor Brown?” said the kid on his step. “I’m Marty. We spoke on the phone?”
The first words out of his mouth, to his acute embarrassment, were, “Are you sure you’re in the seventh grade?”
Marty blinked up at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing – nothing.” He opened the door fully. “You’d better come in – excuse the mess.” He made a final, utterly futile and performative attempt to arrange the junk mail on the bench by the door into some semblance of order.
Hitching up his backpack Marty looked around the garage, taking in the clutter and the junk and the scientific equipment and the jukebox with an expression that Emmett could only read as approval. “Do you actually live in here?”
“Yes I do,” said Emmett.
Marty nodded. “That’s cool,” he said. “I wish I lived next door to Burger King.”
Einstein was shuffling over, calmed down but nonetheless intrigued at the stranger in his home. “Oh, hey!” Marty dropped into a crouch. “Is this your dog?”
“No – that thing wandered in off the street,” said Emmett. Marty blinked up at him. “Yes, that’s my dog.”
“Cool.” Marty scratched Einstein behind the ears. “What a great dog. Want me to take him out for you?”
“You can if you like.”
“Anything I should know?”
“Very prudent to ask – but no,” Emmett said. “He’s a very easy-going dog.”
Marty nodded, and didn’t answer. He looked at as much of a loss as to how to continue the interaction as Emmett felt. It had been a long time since he’d had any visitors. He cleared his throat.
Still petting Einstein, Marty said, abruptly, “Can I ask you a personal question?”
“That depends what it is,” said Emmett.
“Why do you live in a garage next to Burger King?” said Marty.
Ah – that kind of personal question. “Because it’s my inalienable right as a human being and an American citizen to live in a garage next to a Burger King if I so choose.”
“Oh,” said Marty. “Okay.”
He dithered a moment longer. “Do you want a snack or something?”
Sitting on the end of the couch, Marty was already devouring his second Twinkie. “Cause, I’m not judging you or anything,” he said around it. “I’m just saying, I went round the whole block twice trying to figure out where you lived. How does anyone find you?”
“Maybe I don’t want anyone finding me.” Emmett rooted about in the cabinet and produced a can of soda. “Did you ever think about that?”
Marty sat forward on the couch eagerly. “What, are you on the run or something?”
“Something like that,” said Emmett, offering him the soda. “How’d you do on your test?”
“C minus,” Marty said.
He sounded upbeat about it, so Emmett said, “Well done.” Privately, he reflected that he really ought to be able to tutor a seventh grader to do better than a C minus. Maybe next time.
Something of his disappointment must have shown on his face because as he sat down Marty said, “Hey, at least I didn’t fail again, right?”
“That’s the spirit,” said Emmett.
Sipping his coffee, he studied Marty, sitting on his couch eating his third Twinkie – well he was a boy who clearly had a lot of growing to do – and considered his next move.
“Sorry,” said Marty, his mouth full. “Should I take my shoes off?”
“Hm? Oh – no.” Emmett shook his head. “Don’t worry about the couch, it’s had worse on it.”
Pulling his feet up fully onto the couch, Marty unwrapped another Twinkie.
“So, uh,” said Emmett. “How come you keep failing science tests?”
Marty shot him a look. “I told you – I’m not very smart.”
“Now –”
“Can he eat Twinkies?” Marty motioned with his Twinkie at Einstein, who was sitting optimistically at his elbow.
“He cannot eat Twinkies,” Emmett told him.
“See,” Marty crammed the rest of his Twinkie into his mouth, “a smart person would know that. My Mom,” he added, chewing, “she gets real mad when I fail stuff but I don’t see what the big deal is. It’s not like I’m ever gonna need to know what an atom is again.”
“You might decide to become a scientist,” Emmett offered, at which Marty groaned. “You might! And, even if you don’t, where’s your curiosity about the natural workings of the universe? Huh?”
“I got a C minus in natural curiosity.” Marty swallowed his mouthful of Twinkie. “Sorry. I know science is your whole thing, I just don’t like it. And, I don’t wanna be a scientist. So I don’t see why it matters if I pass seventh grade chemistry.”
“What do you wanna be?”
Marty looked away, reaching for Einstein with sticky fingers. “What kind of dog is he?”
“No – really,” said Emmett. “What do you want to do with your life?”
“I don’t know,” said Marty. Einstein licked sugary residue off his fingertips. “Nothing, I guess. What do you care?”
“I’m just interested – you don’t have to tell me.” He thought about it, and made a stab in the dark. “You like music a lot, don’t you?” After all, the kid had talked his ear off the night before about various rock and roll albums he’d never heard of.
But the response came quickly – almost automatically. “I’m not gonna be a musician.”
“Why not?” said Emmett. “You want to be something else?”
“No,” said Marty glumly. “I just – it’s like I said. I’m not very smart. There’s no way I’m ever gonna be good enough. So.” He shrugged.
Emmett considered the matter further, and made a further stab; that didn’t strike him as an especially twelve-year-old attitude. Sitting forward, he said, tersely, “Who told you that?”
Again the response came quickly. “My dad.”
“Your dad –” Well, of course, he thought. Really, who else?
Sighing, he rose from the couch and shuffled over to the kitchen cabinet. “With respect to your father,” he said as he sorted once again through the contents. “I really wouldn’t listen to him. Do you play a musical instrument?”
“I play piano a little,” said Marty behind him.
“Does he listen to you play?”
“Not really.”
“Well, then.” He located the dog treats. “How the hell would he know whether or not you’re any good?” He ambled back in the direction of the couch. “You can accomplish anything if you put your mind to it. Anyone ever tell you that?” Marty just shrugged. “You wanna me a musician, you be a musician.” He offered Marty the dog treats. “Here – you can give Einstein a couple of these if you want.”
Slowly, Marty took the box. “Okay,” he said. “Thanks.”
Einstein ate the treats cheerfully out of his hand and Marty giggled as his fingers were licked. “He’s so gentle.”
“He’s a good dog.” Emmett proffered his leash. “Are you gonna take him out?”
“Sure,” said Marty.
“Now, don’t let him off his leash,” he said as Marty fastened it to Einstein’s collar.
“I know.”
“And bring him back in an hour –”
“I know.” Marty hopped off the couch. “I’ll take good care of him, okay? Thanks for the Twinkies!” he added brightly as he led Einstein away towards the door.
Emmett watched him fumble it open and figured, well, no time but the present. “Hey – kid.”
“Huh?” Marty paused, hand on the half-open door.
“You want to do this again some time?” said Emmett, adding in a sudden rush of embarrassment, “I’ll pay you – don’t worry.”
Standing there, holding the door in one hand and Einstein’s leash in the other, for a long moment Marty considered him. It was difficult to read his expression. It was not, Emmett was sure, exactly a tempting proposition for a boy of twelve. Why don’t you spend your afternoons dog walking for a weird old man who lives in a garage – I’m sure you don’t have anything better to do.
But then, at length, Marty tapped his hand against the door and said, “Sure. Same time next week or something?”
Emmett let out a breath. “Works for me.”
“Cool.” Marty shouldered the door the rest of the way open. “See you then!”
“I’ll – I’ll see you in an hour!” Emmett called after him. “With my dog?”
“Check, Doc!” Marty said from outside.
The door slammed shut with a bang that made Emmett wince. “Kids today,” he muttered.